by Jody Feldman
She sets her briefcase on the bear’s lap, gives her I Love Lucy lunch box to the burglar, and puts her purse in her desk drawer. Then she turns on the lights. She points to a small table and chair on the same wall as the door. “I took the liberty of having Mr. McKenzie deliver this here, seeing as you’ll be my guest this week.”
No video games? I’d better not joke. Instead I drop my backpack next to a card that’s white at the top and stapled to a strip that’s puke yellow on the bottom. I hand it out to her.
“Oh, right,” she says. “I need you to read this and sign.”
The white part says I’m her slave for life. Or not. Just that I recognize I’ve been a bad boy, and if I continue to do dangerous stuff, I may not get all the privileges other kids get and blah, blah, blah in little print on the white part. I sign the puke yellow strip.
She files it in her top desk drawer, swivels in her chair, and turns on her computer.
I sit at the little table and try to figure out what The Legend’s up to.
Legend Events can be anything. In October they set up a rubber duckie pond in the school swimming pool and donated the ducks to some group—Bath-Deprived Kids of America, we joked. That was nice and all, but the best part was everyone got to fish out a duck and win the prize printed underneath. Oh, and when Zach Giatta fell in, then about six other people jumped in and the teachers only got fake mad at us. Legend Events are always free passes to go nuts, but just a little. It’s like we know not to cross some line into evil or they’ll take The Legend away from us, and no one wants it to end.
Most of the duck pond prizes were one dollar bills or free homework passes. Kip won a pizza party in the teachers’ lounge for him and seven of his friends. This eighth grader won Principal for a Day, the grand prize. Mine was one of seven to skip class and deliver pencils and notebooks and other supplies to a school where kids can’t afford them. We got to ride in that cool Lookout Transportation Services bus with its tinted windows and four rounded couches for seats. Then we got ice cream on the way back. That was the best prize.
Or not. The best is being in The Legend. Those kids decide everything good that goes on in this school. The duck pond was a small Event. Others are so big that sometimes a magazine or newspaper or TV station runs a story about them. The Legend people are always photographed from the back, wearing their royal blue robes with hoods and…
Royal blue? Shine-under-the-surface blue? The Legend!
I can’t believe it yet. Lots of things are blue. Besides, if I was getting into The Legend yesterday, my roof incident probably killed it by today. Some giant Legend Head could’ve taken the blue envelope out of my locker as easily as he put it in. Which he couldn’t have done if I already had it. But Mrs. Pinchon’s eyes were watching me until I left last night.
I pray it’s still there, but I can’t ask to go and see now. We just got here.
“Ahh.”
Mrs. Pinchon looks at me. “Something wrong, Travis?”
Everything. “Two things,” I say, remembering something else. “I need to tell Coach Ford why I won’t be at baseball practice this week….”
Mrs. Pinchon holds up a finger, gets on the phone, and tells Coach to come to the office. “And the other thing?”
“It’s probably not what you want to hear, Mrs. Pinchon,” I say as politely as I know how, “but exactly what am I supposed to do this morning?”
“Your homework, read a book….”
“Great. Now you sound like my mom.”
She smiles. Big. “And what did you say to your mom?”
“That I already did my homework, and I don’t know anything worth reading.”
She exhales. Loudly. “While I take care of that,” she says, “why don’t you take care of these.” She opens a drawer, pulls out my baseball shoes, then leaves.
There’s a rule against wearing cleats to class, so I stuff them into my backpack, wishing she’d send me to my gym locker to change into shoes that fit. For now I’m stuck here with nothing to do besides explore her office.
The photos on her wall are of kids at this school. Not family. Did she ever get married? Or did people joke and call her Mrs. Pinchon since she was born much longer than forty years ago. One diploma is almost that old. Another is dated twelve years later, and the third is from less than two years ago. When I’m her age, you won’t catch me going back to school.
I sit on my hands in her chair so I won’t touch the papers fanned on her desk. I look, though, to see if anything’s about The Legend or me. Yellow invoice for the toilet paper. Blue sheet about school clubs. White one with…Ooh…can’t see. I reach and—
Ka-link-ink-ink!
Keys. Why can’t Mrs. Pinchon carry jangle keys like Coach Ford does?
I go to the door to meet him.
“Travis,” he says, holding the s in my name. “I don’t think I want to see you here.”
I tell him the story.
“And what’s our motto?”
I look near his elbow. “Play smart,” I say. “Sometimes I forget when I’m off the field.”
“Do I need to bench you?”
I look him straight in the eye. “No, Coach. No.”
He stares at me like he’s trying to decide.
I’d be more nervous if this were soccer, the best game in the world because it doesn’t care how short you are. Still, I don’t know if I could sit there and watch the others swing and stretch and run. “I didn’t mean to get into trouble. I was trying to do something good. I promise.”
Coach Ford stops staring. “Remember when we were going back to school after last week’s game? Remember what you told me?”
I shake my head.
“You explained how you apply lessons you’ve learned on the field to your life.”
“I said that?”
“Well, I think that’s what you meant when you said something about loving sports because they let you make up for your mistakes the next time the ball comes your way.”
That’s what I was doing with the cap. Why can’t any adult see that? “Yeah,” I say. “I was trying, but I guess I wasn’t smart enough.”
He leans against the door. “You’re still playing soccer next fall?”
Oh no. Where’s this going?
“Yeah. I mean, yes, sir. I mean I’d be playing soccer right now if we had spring soccer. You know that.”
Mrs. Pinchon strides in and plops a pile of books onto my table. “Hello, Coach.” She looks at me then looks back at Coach.
“I was just about to tell him,” Coach says.
This can’t be good.
“Remember our last game this year?”
“We lost in the playoffs. Overtime.”
He nods. “Remember how your effort led us to a last-second tie to take it to overtime?”
I can remember every detail. Dribbling the ball, passing to Matti, getting it back, evading the defender, and kicking it over the goalie’s head with about ten seconds left in the game. The taste of my sweat. The smell of the grass. The roar of my team. But I just nod.
“And I’m sure you remember it’s tradition for the season’s most valuable player to become co-captain the next year.”
So this is where it’s going. I nod again. I can’t talk. I can only see Randall’s big oafy face, grinning, taking my place.
“Don’t look so glum, Mr. Raines,” says Mrs. Pinchon. “You haven’t lost that. Yet.”
Coach puts a hand on my shoulder. “We’ll watch you the rest of this year, Raines. You think you can stay out of trouble and play smart in every respect?”
“I will. I promise.”
Coach shakes his head.
“I promise I will really, really, really try.”
He almost smiles. “If you can accomplish that, you might get to wear that captain C next year.” Coach turns, goes halfway out the door, then reels back around. “Stop messing up.”
I won’t mess up. I won’t mess up. I won’t mess up. How will I not mess up?
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I sit and knock my head against the table until I remember Mrs. Pinchon’s here.
I look up and wait for her to hammer home Coach’s point, but she points to the books she brought in. “For you. A mini library. Something to do.”
Whoopie. I look at the spines. Read it. Saw the movie. Saw the movie. Didn’t want to see the movie. Heard of it. Never heard of it. Never heard of it. Saw the movie. Read it. Saw the movie. Never heard of it.
These could be the best books in the world, but I can only think about soccer and The Legend and how everyone’ll be watching me forever. Like her.
Mrs. Pinchon turns, her mirror pendant reflecting my nose then the door then my nose then…“What is it, Mr. Raines?”
“About yesterday? I’m really, really sorry,” I say.
“I’m sure you are.” She shifts in her chair like this scene is over and we’re about to start a new chapter of the book I’ve landed us in. Problem is I don’t want to read this book. Don’t want to read any book. I want to read that mystery paper.
She twirls her pendant between her thumb and fingers, and I watch my face spin.
“Why don’t you go ahead and read, Travis. Or do some extra homework, or twiddle your thumbs and stare into space. Or answer this,” she says. “How did you know about the roof access in the teachers’ lounge?”
“I was there for The Legend pizza party in October.”
She shakes her head. “The access door is around the back behind a closed door.”
I shrug. “It’s a good idea to know where all the fire exits are, and every school’s required to have an escape map, so it’s easy to find.”
“You’ve studied the fire plan?”
“You can test me,” I say.” From here the closest exit is to the right and out the front door. Unless that’s where the fire is. Then you’d either—”
Mrs. Pinchon raises her hand to stop me, obviously not interested in fire maps. She just rummages through her drawer, then holds up the whiteboard markers and eraser from yesterday. “It’s almost seven thirty,” she says. “Return these to the proper classroom. Then use the bathroom and visit your locker if you need. Be back before the buses start arriving. Five minutes.”
I break free from Mrs. Pinchon’s dungeon and start to run down the deserted halls to Senora Torres’s room. But that’s not a smart way to start this probation thing they’ve got going for me. So I walk and return the markers. Then I pick up speed and run-walk to my locker. I can’t help it. I can’t wait to see if my secret envelope’s still there.
It is! So’s the math sheet. I jump up and down eighty-three times, race to the locker room, change into my normal shoes, then run up one hall, down the next and—
Footsteps and chatter echo toward me. The buses. I speed back toward Mrs. Pinchon’s office. Back with a shiny blue envelope buzzing in my fingers.
CHAPTER 6
I hide the envelope underneath my shirt before I go into the office, but Mrs. Pinchon doesn’t even look up. That’s an old principals’ trick. They try to be invisible so they can jump at you when you forget they’re there.
I won’t forget. I move the envelope into my backpack, slip out the math sheet, then stand Gulliver’s Travels, one of the thickest books, on the table as a cover. I stick my face into page eight but stare down at the math. The numbers start looking like hieroglyphics. Actually, hieroglyphics would be more fun to look at right now. I could pretend the 8 is a shield and the 1 is a sword and the 6 is some sort of chariot. And that would mean—
Dernck. Dernck. Dernck.
I jump with the knock on Mrs. Pinchon’s door glass. Cover the math sheet with the book.
Kip? He’s nuts to be here. She’ll blast him for ever associating with me, but Mrs. Pinchon’s smiling and motioning him in.
He walks sorta crooked, like he woke up with a stiff neck, but that’s his way of not looking at me. I can’t blame him for trying to avoid trouble himself.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Pinchon?” Kip sways like his feet are stuck in cement. Still, the guy’s got guts. “Travis left a homework paper with me yesterday and couldn’t get it last night.” He holds up the paper snake. I snuck-called and told him it was there, and private.
Mrs. Pinchon takes it. “Is this your handiwork, Travis?”
“Yes, Mrs. Pinchon.”
“You’re a good friend, Kip.” Mrs. Pinchon smiles at him then turns to me with a not-as-pleasant face, like it’s saying, “When will you let him rub off on you?” I want to suggest that Kip stick around to teach me to be good, but that might totally vaporize me.
Instead I mouth thank you and give Kip a thumbs-up as he walks out the door, where Matti’s waiting for him.
“Show’s over, Travis,” says Mrs. Pinchon. “Back to work.”
“No problem.” I unfold and unfold and unfold, then flatten the paper out.
“Nice way to treat your homework,” she says.
I wish I could do something right. I want to explain that I don’t need to turn this in. I especially want to say it’s Randall’s fault, but it’d sound like I’m making excuses, so I apologize, and she goes back to her computer, which is an excellent thing because not knowing what’s on this paper might kill me if I have to wait any longer.
Travis Raines,
You have been chosen for this game of sorts. Trust us. You will want to do what we ask of you. These are the rules.
#1 Everything in this envelope and in each one to come is to remain strictly private. “For Your Eyes Only” means exactly that. When you receive each new envelope, hide it if others are around. Wait until the coast is clear. Our eyes are everywhere.
#2 Every envelope contains instructions toward your journey to our Seventh Level. Follow what they say and you will receive further instructions.
#3 Solve every puzzle and perform its ensuing task quickly. Time is of the essence.
#4 Solve every puzzle and perform its ensuing task alone. If you are stumped, you may ask questions that sound as if you are looking for homework help. You may NOT show anyone your puzzles. You may NOT let anyone solve a puzzle for you.
#5 Your parents understand the secret nature of your actions and the limited role they are allowed to play.
#6 Remember, when opportunity closes a window, it often opens a door.
#7 Only after you solve every puzzle and perform every task will you be privilege to our secrets and rewards…assuming you follow every rule.
This has to be The Legend! It has to be! I gulp down my energy and study the math sheet.
…1035, 828, 621, 414, ___…
…8, 16, ___, 64, 128…-51, 32, ___, 14, 25, 16, 17, 18-…4, 9, ___, 25, 36…
Travis, it would behoove you to solve this puzzle within three days. When you do, bring a circle there.
Bring a circle where? What kind of circle? A Frisbee? A doughnut? Or just something I draw on paper?
And what does “behoove” mean? Be a horse with hooves? No. “Betray” doesn’t mean to act like a tray. And I belong to stuff, but that doesn’t mean I be long. I be short. I hide my laugh with a cough.
Mrs. Pinchon looks up.
I want to say the book is funny, but as far as I know, this part’s about death.
Idea. “Mrs. Pinchon, sorry to bother you. But do you have a dictionary?”
She nods.
According to the dictionary, it’d be in my best interest to do whatever this says. Sounds like something a principal might say. To a kid who’s been dangling from a roof. What if this isn’t The Legend? What if this is from Mrs. Pinchon? A principal’s practical joke. But the envelope was there before the roof. Still…
“Travis?” says Mrs. Pinchon.
“What?”
“You sighed. Do you need anything?”
I sighed? “I guess I’m not used to getting here so early.”
She nods. “Go on, then. I doubt you have enough time to get into trouble with just a minute until the first bell.”
“I could pull the fire alar
m.”
Her glare doesn’t see the humor.
“Just kidding.”
I think I see a little smile as I go out of her office.
All morning, the teachers stop every bit of talk about The Legend Event. At lunchtime Kip’s leaning on the cafeteria door, waiting with a look that says any Legend talk will have to wait some more.
I shake my head. “Don’t say it, Kip. I found one of your billion ways to mess up.”
“I wasn’t going to say anything.” But his lips twitch like they’re dying to say, “I told you so.” He forces them back into place. “I owe you, Trav.”
I poke my pen point into the doorframe. “No, you don’t. I didn’t go on the roof just for your cap. I needed the paper,” I say, almost wishing Kip would ask about it.
“But if I hadn’t brought that cap…”
I wave him off. “Consider it payback for kindergarten and first grade. I still owe you for second through sixth, then for something you’ll probably help me with this year.”
Matti rounds the corner. “Travis! You’re alive! Unscarred!” She grabs my hand and quick studies it. “She didn’t hang you by your fingernails in her torture chamber? Or stretch you on the rack?”
“Do I look any taller?”
She bounces once around me. “No rack. You’re right. Sorry.” She doesn’t look sorry.
I start walking to our lunch table. “Sorry about what?”
“I probably could’ve made sure Mrs. Pinchon was gone before I watched your Spiderman impression.”
“That’s what you’re sorry about?” asks Kip.
“What should I be sorry about?”
Kip shakes his head. “For encouraging him. Travis doesn’t need encouragement.”
“I know that.” Matti bounds around toward Kip. “I’ve also known him since birth, and there’s no stopping him when he gets that look in his eye. You should know that by now.”
They keep walking to our usual lunch table, even when kids stop me to say they’re glad I didn’t kill myself. Still others call out to me, and I try not to strut. Mrs. Pinchon and Coach Ford would not like this attention.